"'Odd's-my-life! what's this?" exclaimed the carpenter, looking at the superscription of one of them. "At present under the care of his preserver—one Owen Wood, a carpenter, by whom he was brought up. The thought caused him an odd kind of pang—of pity, naturally. At last his voice came to release her tension. And now you are acting the cuckold, because I do not wish to waste my seed in your barren womb?\" She was too devastated to answer him.
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